


the harbor's you alone

by mywordsflyup



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Adaar is a florist, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dorian owns an antiques store, Established Relationship, M/M, Marshmallow Adaar, Renovating, there's kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-20 04:49:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5992204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mywordsflyup/pseuds/mywordsflyup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Manual labor and dangerous ladders and paint in his hair. The things one does for love...</p>
            </blockquote>





	the harbor's you alone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Byacolate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Byacolate/gifts).



> happy valentine's day, b. ( ◡‿◡ ♡)

It’s an early relationship mistake, he tells himself. There is no other way to explain why he didn’t have the heart to tell Adaar that he has never even picked up a paintbrush - let alone attempted to paint a wall with it. No, manual labor is not something he is intimately familiar with. But when Adaar told him he needed to close the shop for renovations, not offering to help just would have felt wrong. After all, it’s usually Adaar who's the first to come to aid with whatever problem Dorian has. From the time a bird got trapped in his kitchen to that embarrassing morning he locked himself out of his own store. Adaar has been there every single time. It seems only fair that Dorian would return the favor at some point - in other ways than just with kisses and the pleasure of his company.

 

Dorian pushes open the door to Adaar’s shop, carefully balancing the two cups of coffee and the bag with muffins he bought at Adaar’s favorite coffeeshop just around the corner. For a few seconds, he’s startled. The shop looks different without the flowers and with all the furniture pushed into the middle of the room and covered with a sheer plastic sheet. The familiar scent of freshly cut flowers has already been replaced with the sharp smell of paint.

 

Adaar is kneeling in front of a large bucket of paint, the dripping lid in his hands, and he looks up when the bell above the door heralds Dorian’s entrance.

 

One of these days, the impact Adaar’s smile has on him surely must fade. Dorian is certain of it. He cannot fathom that it could always be this way - the way his chest grows tight and his stomach does a little flip at the mere sight of it. The warmth that spreads through him from head to toe, like the first sip of sweet mulled wine after a long winter’s day. One day he will get used to it. But today's not that day.

 

“Good morning,” Adaar says and rises to his feet until he is towering over Dorian, in the best possible way.

 

“Good morning indeed,” Dorian says and puts coffee and muffins down on top of one of the covered shelves. “Do you have a photo shoot for one of those nude calendars scheduled for later today? Thedas’ hottest handymen or something of the like?”

 

Adaar’s chuckle is low and good-natured. He seems not in the least uncomfortable in nothing but his blue overalls, most of his chest and his muscular arms exposed. Not that he has anything to be self-conscious about. There's a reason, after all, why Dorian’s hands find their way to his biceps as soon as Adaar pulls him in for a kiss.

 

Another thing to get used to, Dorian thinks. That crossing a room and just kissing Adaar is no longer just a thing of daydreams. He sighs appreciatively against Adaar’s lips, relishing the feeling of a broad hand on the small of his back and the another drawing gentle circles in between his shoulder blades.

 

“I brought breakfast,” he says when they finally part, his voice just a little shaky.

 

“I saw,” Adaar says and takes the coffee that Dorian hands him. “Thank you.” He takes a sip and his smile turns blissful. How anyone can even call that milky sweet stuff coffee is beyond Dorian but it’s worth it for Adaar’s smile and the second kiss.

 

“So what's the meaning behind this curious outfit?” Dorian asks, leaning against the shelf and pulling a muffin out of the paper bag. “Not that I don't appreciate the view.”

 

Adaar shrugs. “I find no shirt is easier than an old shirt when it comes to painting.” He eyes Dorian’s clothes a little skeptically. “You remembered to put on something old? Something you don’t mind getting paint on?”

 

“Yes, of course,” Dorian lies swiftly. “I never wear these.” He doesn’t really have old clothes. Just ones that fall into the narrow margin of things he's not overly fond of but still feels comfortable enough in to wear in front of Adaar.

 

If Adaar knows he’s lying he doesn’t let it show. Or perhaps he really just doesn’t question Dorian, which is a strange thought. One that doesn’t lead anywhere good, really.

 

“Breakfast?” Adaar asks with a smile, as if he knows that Dorian is about to follow a train of thought down the rabbit hole. He always seems to know somehow.

 

“Oh yes. We wouldn’t want you to starve, now would we?” Dorian hands him the muffin and takes one for himself out of the bag. It’s oddly comfortable, having breakfast like this - cross-legged on the bare floor in between piled up furniture and paint buckets. Adaar listens to him complain about a particular difficult customer that pestered Dorian yesterday afternoon with their fruitless search for an authentic Chasind escritoire and only smiles a bit at his little exaggerations.

 

From time to time, Adaar will just reach out to brush his fingers across Dorian’s knuckles or lean in and kiss him. Dorian’s thoughts still stutter to a hold every time.

 

Painting itself, on the other hand, proves to be an altogether unpleasant experience. It turns out that it’s not as easy as it looks and also a lot more work than anticipated. In fact, there are several steps Dorian never even thought about. Like covering the floor with another plastic sheet. Or applying masking tape to all the edges of the walls. Or that the ceiling would be so high that even Adaar can’t reach it without stepping on a ladder. (Dorian does appreciate the way Adaar holds on to his hips whenever he climbs to the top of the ladder, however. He may volunteer to apply the masking tape to the top edge just for that reason alone…)

 

It’s not like he has no fun at all. It’s very difficult to hate a task that keeps being interrupted by Adaar casually running his fingers along the small of his back or squeezing his hand or pulling him into a kiss.

 

“We will never finish at this rate,” Dorian says as he gently pushes against Adaar’s broad chest to urge him to continue working. Another early relationship mistake, perhaps. It doesn’t help that his fingers seem to develop a mind of their own as they curl themselves around the straps of Adaar’s ridiculous overalls to pull him down for another kiss.

 

There are things he could do without, however. Like the paint in his hair or the way it goes in between his toes after he finally peels of his already soaked-through socks. It’s a mess. He’s not even doing most the work on account of not being able to manage an even coat of paint even when he climbs to the top of the ladder. But after just one hour he already feels like he’s covered in paint.

 

Adaar somehow manages to make it look effortless. The sprinkles of white paint are just another layer of freckles on his dark skin. Even the smudge on his forehead makes him look roguish rather than ridiculous.

 

“It’s like your own personal version of vitaar,” Dorian tells him from his spot on top of one of the low shelves. He’s sweating and his arms ache and he’s taking an early break while Adaar stands on the ladder and tries to paint a clean edge around the large shop window.  

 

“Not quite so scary, I’m afraid,” Adaar laughs and stretches in a way that is very, very distracting.

 

“I find it hard to imagine you as scary even with the proper war paint.”

 

Adaar ducks his head but Dorian can see his smile in the reflection in the window.

 

Dorian leans back and lets his gaze wander through the shop. It smells strongly of fresh paint, despite the cracked windows, but the fresh color makes the room looks bright and friendly. “I’ve had a thought,” he says.

 

Adaar steps off the ladder, puts down the paintbrush and rolls his shoulders. “I like your thoughts.”

 

“As you should,” Dorian agrees and smiles. “They’re usually excellent.”

 

“As is this one?” Adaar steps forward to stand in between Dorian’s thighs, his large hands resting lightly on his hips.

 

“Indeed.” Dorian runs his hands over Adaar’s shoulders, the little flecks of paint like a curious form of braille underneath his fingertips. “See, you’re renovating the store-”

 

“With your help.”

 

“Naturally.” Dorian smiles. "But I thought I could be of even more help. Since you’re renovating and I own an antiques store that just happens to sell furniture…”

 

Adaar raises an eyebrow. “I have furniture.”

 

“You have _something_.” Dorian lifts the plastic sheet from the shelf on which he is sitting to reveal the spots where the paint’s already peeling off the the wood. “And it’s not pretty.”

 

Adaar laughs and does that distracting thing where he slips his fingers underneath the hem of Dorian’s shirt and draws circles on the skin of his hips. “I’m a florist,” he says as if Dorian needs a reminder. “I deal with dirt and water all day long. In my experience that doesn't go well with expensive antique furniture, Dorian.”

 

“I’m not saying you should use a priceless Nevarran desk as your workbench.” He pats Adaar’s chest. “But perhaps a nice shelf? I have a wonderful piece that would look absolutely fantastic against the back wall. Antivan, dark wood and wonderful craftsmanship.”

 

Adaar leans in to nose at the side of his neck - another distraction tactic. “You really have thought about this.”

 

“Of course.” Dorian might crane his neck a little bit to give Adaar better access but he decidedly doesn’t allow himself to be distracted from the topic at hand. “It’s my job, after all.”

 

Adaar chuckles and Dorian feels it more than he hears it, with his hands pressed against his chest. “I’m sure it’s lovely,” he says. “But a little out of my price range.”

 

“Good thing you know the owner,” Dorian says and wraps his legs around Adaar’s waist to pull him close. “I hear he’s inclined to make you a good offer.”

 

Frustratingly, Adaar stills, his hands falling from their spot on Dorian’s hips. When he pulls back to look at Dorian, his face is far too serious. “I can’t accept that kind of gift from you,” he says.

 

“Don’t be silly. Dating me does come with certain perks.” He tries to pull Adaar into a kiss but he won’t budge.

 

“You know that’s not why I’m with you.” The small steep line in between Adaar’s eyebrows would have been enticing on any other day but now it just makes Dorian shift uncomfortably.

 

“What?” He feigns shock, hoping to steer the conversation back into calmer waters. “You’re not with me solely for my connections into the world of antiques dealing? I’m crushed!”

 

“Dorian…”

 

He sighs. “Fine! Consider it this way then. I’ll let you put up the shelf in your shop and whenever one of your customers inevitably asks you about that magnificent piece of Antivan craftsmanship, you just refer them to me. That way we’ll all gain something.”

 

The smile on Adaar’s face is small but it’s a start. “And just like that you make it sound like I’m the one doing you a favor.”

 

“What can I say?” Dorian’s pleased to find Adaar finally lets himself be pulled close again. “I just know you too well…”

 

He can feel Adaar smiling when he presses his lips against his. It’s his favorite kind of kiss - the one that starts out slow and ends up making him glad he’s already seated, his whole body weak and tingling in Adaar’s arms. One of Adaar’s hands runs up the nape of Dorian’s neck, only to be stopped short by a knot of paint and hair at the back of his head.

 

“There’s paint in your hair,” Adaar murmurs against his lips, a little breathless.

 

“There’s paint on your horns,” Dorian retorts and reaches up to run his fingers along one of them. He makes a point of scraping his nails lightly over the sensitive skin at the base only to make Adaar gasp and his grip tighten ever so slightly.

 

“You know, there are a few advantages to living above the shop.”

 

“Are there?” Dorian smiles. “Could one of them be the fact that there’s a shower right upstairs?”

 

“Among other things.”

 

Dorian’s smile widens as he holds on to Adaar’s shoulders. “If you’d be so kind…”  

 

He doesn’t have to ask twice. Adaar’s hands give Dorian’s ass a promising little squeeze on their way down before he grips his thighs and lifts him as if he weighed nothing at all.

 

It must be another early relationship thing, Dorian thinks. The dizzying feeling of being carried by this man. The way he holds him like he’s the most precious thing on earth. But he can’t imagine ever getting used to this - getting tired of the way he smiles up at him.

 

“I’ve mentioned that these are old clothes, right?” Dorian says as Adaar carefully steps around paint buckets on their way to the stairs.

 

“That’s what you said.”

 

“I’m just saying… I wouldn’t terribly mind if someone were to, let’s say, tear them from my body…”

 

Adaar laughs, his breath hot against Dorian’s neck. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Mascha Kaleko's poem "For One". 
> 
> You can also follow my [tumblr](http://damnable-rogue.tumblr.com) if you're interested.


End file.
